The Jottings of Death

Around me was a veil of colorful bookshelves, closing me in on three sides. I was nestled in the corner of the bookstore’s lowest level, but could still see outside through a window because the store was built into a hill. There were separations between books in the bookshelves opening up cosmic holes to other dimensions; the trails left by whoever bought what was there before.

The lights burned yellow and turned the paper in my journal golden. My pencil danced with an awakened intensity. My skin was uncomfortably hot and my eyes were tired, but they lit up at the text performing on the paper. My sinister thoughts flowed out like the River Styx, my “incredibly imaginative and twisted mind,” as one reviewer called it, coming to life on the page.

I was sitting down on the stiff carpet with my back to the third bookshelf. Open on my lap was my newest work-in-progress novel, which I was writing by hand; to my left was an English dictionary and thesaurus, and to my right was my previous published work, critically acclaimed for its unique worldbuilding and vivid descriptions. “A magnificent debut.”

I looked through the holes in the bookshelves to get a shot of the wide window on the other side, overlooking the descending hill, now decorated by a street and a town. I remember when this building was first built, and people dressed in elegant attire or inventive costume would waltz inside because it began as an opera house. I remember when the willow trees outside were first planted, and their leaves began to droop more heavily as they grew. I remember when none of these buildings were here yet, and children would roll down the hill into the fields below. I remember when one of them shattered her head open, and I had to carry her up to the sky. I remember when the town didn’t even exist, and there was nothing but beautiful verdure for endless miles.

A crowd of angry people was marching up the road, carrying handwritten signs.

Every generation, I take a new name. And every generation, I write more books. Writing is my passion: twisting my existence and my truths into unique and creative stories, spreading the world of my origin to the world of humans. When I think back on all the names I have taken and discarded over centuries, I think about the impact their stories have had. Many of those names are still spoken today. They make me real.

But my true profession could not be ignored, and it was time to return. There was work to do. I returned my published novel to the shelf and gathered my possessions, covered myself in my cloak, and flew away.

Barely awake, and still wiping the crusty sleep from his eyes, a Policeman was showering in his bathroom. Steam from the hot water seeped through the porous curtain, wrapping the room in fog just as clouds were wrapping around his apartment like a python. The larger building next door cast a shadow over his, obscuring the grey sky. The world was bleak and lifeless, as if not a single star or planet had wanted to witness this day.

Hopping out of the shower, the Policeman stretched and flexed, tightening the skin throughout his body, which was less than muscular and paler than the moon. He shaved before the mirror and threw a few pills into his mouth—blood pressure and high cholesterol. Then, he buttoned up his striking blue uniform and donned his shimmering golden badge.

Appearing as a messenger of dread and advice is a job I enjoy far more than being a bringer of Death. It’s always so amusing to me, the confusion and fear on people’s faces when they meet Death for the first time, knowing it won’t be the last. Whether they accept the advice or not depends on a few factors, but being able to influence them without knowing exactly how: it’s entertaining.

The Policeman’s heavy boots forced deep imprints into the carpet as he stomped through his empty bedroom—no family, pets, houseplants, photographs, or decorations. Arriving in the den, which was also the kitchen and the living room, his heart stopped. He immediately pulled his standard-issue pistol from his belt and pointed it directly at me: the unexpected, shadowy figure standing in his living room.

Terror filled his eyes, now fully open and aware. He failed to speak for several seconds before managing to shout “Get out of my house! I will shoot!”

I strode out towards him, silently, like I was drifting on the air. Two ear-piercing shots were heard, phasing through my ghastly form and breaking a vase on the mantle. I pulled him an inch from my face, my curved, steel blade wrapping around him from behind. My resonant breaths lasted centuries and turned his ears into an echo chamber. His mortified countenance, I will remember for lifetimes.

“Let me give you some advice… some guidance…” I bellowed. “You are going to want to change your ways… or you will regret it.” My breath was like fire, boiling his skin, making him sweat. “I know all that you have done… all of your sins.”

He stood petrified like I was Medusa, his gun crumpled into my chest, unable to fire again, knowing it would be pointless even if he could. His skin was trembling violently, not only from the fear but from the cold aura expelled from my soul, twisting around my scathing breath, spinning a storm in his brain.

I twirled him in a circle with my scythe, initiating a dance with Death. I swiped my blade around in every direction, grazing his arms, legs, and neck, barely slicing his skin, causing single drops of blood to drip out, but nothing more. He was gasping violently when I caught him, and he dizzily fell backward against the wall and to his knees.

“I hope…” I whispered, “that you are closely aware of your decisions today.”

I dissipated into a smog, my every molecule fading away, and the Policeman was left nearly crying on the ground. When he finally brought himself to move, though he was still shaking, he didn’t have time to make coffee. He arrived at the station several minutes late.

An infernal pyre raged through the desolate crag, consuming all in its path, joining everything into its monstrous form until it could swallow the mountains themselves. The scarlet river snaked its way between the hills, across the endless countryside, devouring the fire with joy. Filling the red sky like stars were the spiked, evil Eyes of God. At the center of their gaze was a gaping ravine that curved around the Black Tower in its center, which ascended from the core of the earth ever upwards. It was spiked with cathedral spires and black flames.

A coven of cloaked creatures was circled in the summit of the structure. Their garbs were jet black, just like every other object that entered the ravine, the sole exception being their crowns, which were horned and glowed a brilliant, divine gold, mirroring excruciating light into the crevices of every black object there. The Grim were conversing, though not with sound but with the absence of it. In movement, they did not stir.

Nearby, the landscape sloped down into a pasture of hellish crops. Sticking up like scarecrows amongst the tall, stiff grain were laborers, their color all drained away from years, decades, perhaps millennia of torture. Their wrists, ankles, and necks were held taut by ethereal strings, caught on the other side by cloaked wardens. The reapers would cut the grass with their scythes and the slaves would load it into containers. There were millions of them, and monotony, stagnant time, was the only thing any of them knew.

But then, flowing through the field, there was a shining yellow light, flattening the wheat that was the tortured souls’ bane. They raised their heads to the figure, which was guiding a mob of angry shades behind it, and for perhaps the first time since death, their eyes lit up. The figure moved with great rapidity, spreading light into the eyes of the reapers, the slave drivers, and vaporizing them into piles of translucent cloth. It swung its golden sword in every direction, severing the ties that restrained the dead souls, and they began to rally behind it, joining the mob.

They continued to charge in the direction of the Black Tower, leveling the remainder of the wheat fields. They trampled over the blazing valley, flames scalding their feet, but they endured because they were free. Demons—lanky, impish creatures which wandered the lands of hell uncaged—reached out their fingers to stop them, but all succumbed before the golden blade.

High up in the counsel room, the Grim were still in debate. A constant howl flooded the room, only ceasing when one of them raised their hands and warped the soundwaves, letting the lack of sound speak for them. Finally, when they seemed to have come to a consensus, they started to descend the stairs single file...

The ravine finally came into sight, and the souls were tripping over each other to approach it. A long, black bridge with seemingly no support led across the bottomless abyss to the Tower’s entrance. On the cliffside, the flaming river plummeted and morphed from red to black, the fire changing color with it.

The army of souls pushed past their leader and flew towards the bridge, blind with fury. When they first crossed the threshold, their skinless skeletons began to wither into nothingness, crippled piles of sludge upon the ground. But then their leader entered behind them, and the golden light radiating from its sword reinvigorated them all. Nearly every tortured soul in the underworld stormed across the bridge, throwing down the Tower’s doors and bursting inside.

But there, at the entrance, wielding death and silence, the Grim were lying in wait.

I emerged back into reality on top of the hill, where the roads of the city square converged and City Hall stood. The group of protestors was congregated outside, yelling angrily, their signs painted with messages encouraging equality and justice. A significant portion of them were black. They faced a wall of police officers, side-by-side with flat, metal shields that read riot. One of them was the Policeman from earlier. I stood behind them, invisible now, watching the red eyes of the crowd.

From afar, it appeared unorganized, chaotic, but zooming in, I could hear repeated chants. Words spoken simultaneously, echoing across the crowd towards their opposition, often drowned out by layering sounds of anger. The attendees were so great in number that they filled up nearly the entire square, and they went so far that their tail end disappeared behind the hill.

Suddenly, the chanting seemed to muffle, and a figure climbed onto a pedestal, now standing over the crowd. He held a microphone and a paper, and his skin was the darkest of anyone there. All the protesters turned to face him; the ones nearest had to crane their necks. Even the policemen were staring, and I like to think that the politicians, wielders of the blades of law, who sat at the top of city hall, were watching too.

The man’s name was Elijah Marcus, and he commanded the ultimate attention of all around him. Everyone in the square was listening to him now. His dress was not polished; he wore torn jeans and a plain white shirt. However, he radiated an air of intense wisdom and refinement. He spoke in eloquent and ornate prose, and his words resonated through the crowd.

He preached about non-violence and equality, abstract concepts that crystallized into beautiful significance when converged with his poetry. He announced that all people should treat all others with respect no matter what the eyes see. That they should grow blind to color and judge everyone only on their character. That the only thing that truly divided them was government-gifted authority, and that if those without it are to respect those with it, those who have it should equally respect those who do not.

And then, I heard the shot. A booming explosion, shattering the minds of the front of the crowd. Elijah collapsed, and there was screaming, panic. 911 was called, and bystanders tripped over each other.

I shook my head. No one ever listens to my advice. Regretfully, I drew my scythe, wrapped it around Elijah’s soul, and pulled it upwards.

When I returned to the surface, it was chaos. The protestors were raging at the policemen, raising their fists, howling their criticisms. The other officers had distanced themselves slightly from the Policeman I had spoken to earlier, but none said anything about the smoking gun he had fired at Elijah.

Ambulances had arrived quickly; the crowd was in the middle of town, after all. But it had been hopeless. He was dead the moment the bullet hit him. Insults and slurs were flying in both directions, from both sides. Weapons were being created. There was most certainly violence. Police backup was arriving on the scene. Mourners were crowding around the body of their prophet as authorities attempted to zip him into a body bag.

That’s when the second shot rang out.

The policemen immediately leapt to the ground and tackled the protester who had a gun. They slammed their shields upon him repeatedly with murderous force, throwing off anyone who attempted to stop them. There were a dozen of them, all flattening this one man, their golden badges glimmering. The only policeman missing was the one who killed Elijah, who was lying on his back with his shield fallen over his face. Blood soaked the concrete around him. Horrified screams filled the air.

I sighed, sorrowfully, before rounding up the souls of the Policeman and his murderer and descending into the earth.

That night, I sat upon the porch of my cabin, looking out at my acres and acres of monochrome land, crumbling and cracking like a desert that suffered an earthquake. Bloody, violet grain seeped out from the crevices, bringing color to the field. Past my soil were bare, ominous trees, their branches protruding like arms. Even further in the distance, I saw mountains.

Words were once again flowing into my book like I was a river’s mouth, or a machine churning out products. I absorbed the atmosphere of this world, channeled it into my creativity. Focused on all the boldest differences between it and the bookshop, then the sharper, more subtle ones. One interviewer once asked me how I create such magical worlds, and I told him “to take someone somewhere, you must first go there yourself; let it totally consume you.” But, when I cannot envelop myself in the environment about which I am writing, I go to the most drastic opposite and invert it.

Some of the things in my novels, I sometimes wish were real. Periodically, I long for the companionship of the Grim who hold council in the Black Tower, in contrast to the solitude of my farmhouse and the inability to ever communicate with my fellow reapers. But some things I’m very happy are not true. I prefer the way they are in the real world…

My writing allows me to envision a world where things are different, for better or for worse. It lets me fantasize about spending time with others, about feeling the warmth of human love. And then, I can flip on my head and conceive the most vicious realities possible, and remind myself how well I have it here.

Death is not someone people love. People hate Death, reflect their anger onto it. Some believe I do not even exist, my true form being that of a faceless, uncontrollable phenomenon of nature. But by publishing my stories, I can live in the human world, feel the embrace of admiration. I can live forever, and be beloved by the population because they can no longer deny that I am real.

Idly, I stood up from my desk and wandered into the field. I drew my sickle and started chopping down bales of the reddish crop, which resembled amaranth. The shreds drifted out into the air, spiraling in the wind, the screams of the damned. Nobody tended these pastures, nobody harvested them, and nobody ate from them. They existed solely to give my house some scenery, and often they grew to the height of a bleeding jungle.

Once I had cut myself a path through the meadow, I continued walking. My feet kept dragging me further, off into the wilderness of eternally comatose trees and smoldering earth. Finally, I drew my blade and cut open a pocket in the universe, and I stepped through, emerging on the other side.

Above the clouds, and higher still, the knights of Heaven were lining up into grids. The cold and powdery substance beneath their feet, like the snow upon the mountaintops that made up the closest pieces of earth to them, they called sand. Around them were white, cubic tents, where many provisions and tools were stored.

At the head of each squadron, angelic generals began to bark commands, wearing veils of a clear, soft silver, their wings glowing faintly in the sun, which burned more brightly here than any place on earth. Slowly, the soldiers began to march, their golden spears and swords shining like God’s lightning. Some attached them at their waists; others raised them into the air in a display of authority.

They walked a great distance across fluffy but barren paths that resembled a desert. The heat was making valiant attempts to destroy them, but a little heat was nothing to the holy warriors chosen by God. They came across the Temple of Eyes, where the angels known as the Eyes peered down at the world—the surface and beneath it as well—with their telescopes, scanning for sinners. Angels disguised as magnificent and violent vultures soared over their heads like comets.

They rearranged formation when they arrived at a gushing, golden waterfall, its production as bountiful as spring. It flowed relentlessly from above their heads into a hole in the clouds, going for so great a distance that neither its top nor its bottom could be seen. The generals beckoned, and at their command, the knights leapt into the vertical river, falling for eternity.

One after another, they flew past columns of clouds, then wall-like mountains, then the blue sky of the surface, then the brown dirt and gray stone of the crust, and splashed into the yellow pool far below, shattering it like a crystal. The pond filled a grotto lit only by its honey-like liquid, and dark shadows danced on the rocks jutting out from the ceiling.

On the shore, depressed souls stood single-file in their faded, grey cloaks, chained together by invisible ropes made of an oppressive material, inching forward every few minutes like a traffic jam. A reaper at the front, who paid no mind to the incomers from heaven, dipped a cup into the pond and spilled its golden contents into the mouths of each prisoner. Upon consumption, they transformed, their coverings solidifying into shiny, light-colored metal, and their eyes becoming mad and deranged.

After all the knights landed, they congregated on the shore and listened further to the intense orders of the angels. They were all handed goblets, which they dunked into the water and drank from, reinstilling in them the pleasure of power. Elation washed over their faces as they were reminded of the heavenly feelings brought about by authority.

As the generals led them out of the cavern and emerged into the flaming underworld, the darkness weighing down on them like a heavy sheet, the generals’ words rang in their ears. “It is their fault. They are the cause. It is our job to eliminate them.” In the moment of looking back before the grotto was completely out of sight, the soldiers could see the reaper from before drink from the pool, and morph into a radiating, feathered angel.

From the moment the sky had become visible, the Black Tower had been in their sights, and they marched along the bank of the crimson river toward it. Their steel attire conducted the fiery heat, making them even hotter here than beneath the sun itself. The Eyes looking down on them seemed to smile, as well as eyes can smile. The black jewels which dotted the knights’ golden armor gleamed more brightly down here than they did anywhere in Heaven.

Finally, they passed over their last hill and could glimpse the ravine surrounding the Tower. An uncountable and impenetrable mass of shades surrounded the cliff and the bridge, and were so tightly packed that some were falling off. Opposing them were the Grim, wielding fields of dark energy, ghastly chains, and the powers to both bring about and amplify the agony of death.

The one who seemed to lead the souls rallied them with great war cries, and swung a golden blade; their newly arriving adversaries swung many golden blades. The Grim saw the knights and silently expressed their gratitude. The angels shouted similar war cries, and at their command, the army of Heaven charged down the hill intending to suppress the rioters.

I watched over the battlefield from the heights of the unholy mountain that was visible from my house. Black and gold were colliding on the empty fields, blades crashing together, light seeming to overtake and push back the dark. Screams of fury could be heard erupting from the forces of Hell.

Flying in for a closer look, I could see the contrast in the faces of both sides. The golden forces tended to scowl and fight with silent aggression, though there were some outliers. Many members of the dark forces had sadistic smiles and swung their blades with great energy. At least, until they received their first hits.

I floated above the armies searching for one particular soldier. When I found him, the Policeman was wearing a black cloak, charging with joy, looking wildly for victims to feed his prejudice. His first slice bounced off metal armor, then he enjoyed the bleeding anguish of his arm being splintered apart. The fires of hell invaded his skin and incinerated every tingling nerve. He cried out in misery.

I slowed time for a moment so that every fighter was inching through the air. The Policeman was now lying on his back, savoring the pain for as long as possible. It didn’t die down; there was no relief. It continued burning eternally.

When he had arrived in the afterlife, and I had announced that he would become a Hell Warrior, his eyes had lit up. He could continue to slaughter and take lives, even after he had lost his own. It sounded like Heaven to him. I leaned down so that my face was right next to his, and placed my skeletal hands on his shoulders.

“This is hell…” I whispered to him. “Nobody likes hell. This is what pain... what Death feels like. How it feels to have a bullet penetrate your skin. This is how Elijah Marcus felt in the moments before his heart stopped pumping.”

I returned to my place in the sky and stabilized time, and heard the Policeman wail like tortured souls always wail. He whimpered on the ground, and soldiers from both sides trampled over him. When he finally managed to stand up, he was wobbling, until he faced two familiar enemies: Elijah Marcus and Javier Onai—the man who had carried out the Policeman’s karma. They wore golden armor and stared at him with contempt.

His face filled with horror, confusion, and shock. How the hell’d they become knights of Heaven? he thought. His protests were drowned out by the blade of Elijah Marcus’s apparition; the activist’s real soul was resting in paradise, enjoying the consolations of a life cut too short. The decoy cut through the policeman’s skin like butter and chopped off his arm. He choked on his own blood.

Javier Onai came next, blasting a hole through his eye with a gun for the second time, dissolving the flesh into a hot, decaying mess. He, on the other hand, was being tortured just like the Policeman, forced to fight endlessly, subjected to horrific pain. After several more shots from his firearm with endless ammunition, he charged forward and fired at others, before feeling his first stab.

Black… gold… it doesn’t matter. There’s no difference. There are no Hell Warriors and there are no Heaven Knights. Heaven and Hell aren’t at war. Both legions are just dead souls dressed up in different outfits to create the illusion of opposing sides, so that the violent murderers being punished would be urged to fight.

Elijah’s apparition, placed there solely to torture the Policeman further, stabbed its sword through his neck. He was dead for the second time, though it would not be the last; crushed by the man he killed. He was weak; that’s why he needed to kill to feel strong. In turn, as punishment, he would die, over and over again. He would feel how he made Elijah feel forever.